Chapter III: Part 3

The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o’er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter’d coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early Winter’s ravage torn;
Across her placid azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

’Tis not the surging billow’s roar,
’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc’d with many a wound:
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those;
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE

The bonniest lad that e’er I saw,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Wore a plaid and was fu’ braw,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
On his head a bonnet blue,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
His royal heart was firm and true,
Bonnie Highland laddie.

Trumpets sound and cannons roar,
Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,
And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar,
Bonnie Lawland lassie.
Glory, Honour, now invite,
Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,
For Freedom and my King to fight,
Bonnie Lawland lassie.

The sun a backward course shall take,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Ere aught thy manly courage shake,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
Go, for yoursel procure renown,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
And for your lawful King his crown,
Bonnie Highland laddie!

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat,
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once beneath a monarch’s feet
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs.
From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing lone the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy trade his labours plies;
There Architecture’s noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind,
Above the narrow rural vale;
Attentive still to sorrow’s wail,
Or modest merit’s silent claim:
And never may their sources fail!
And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy.
Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,
Heaven’s beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own his work indeed divine!

There watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,
And mark’d with many a seamy scar:
The pond’rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble stately dome,
Where Scotia’s kings of other years,
Fam’d heroes, had their royal home;
Alas, how chang’d the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust,
Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam;
Tho’ rigid law cries out ’twas just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps
Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore.
Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger’s loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat,
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once beneath a monarch’s feet
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!
From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing lone the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat,
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs.]

BONNIE LESLEY

O saw ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o’er the border?
She’s gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o’ men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He’d look into thy bonnie face,
And say, ‘I canna wrang thee.’

The Powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha’na steer thee;
Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There’s nane again sae bonnie.

AH, CHLORIS

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be,
That thou of love wilt hear;
If from the lover thou maun flee,
Yet let the friend be dear.

Altho’ I love my Chloris mair
Than ever tongue could tell;
My passion I will ne’er declare,
I’ll say I wish thee well:

Tho’ a’ my daily care thou art,
And a’ my nightly dream,
I’ll hide the struggle in my heart,
And say it is esteem.

AE FOND KISS

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov’d sae kindly,
Had we never lov’d sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever;
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.

MY NANNIE’S AWA

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes,
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw;
But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’s awa.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn:
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’ Nannie—and Nannie’s awa.

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o’ the lawn
The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa’,
Gie over for pity—my Nannie’s awa.

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ nature’s decay;
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa.

MACPHERSON’S FAREWELL

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch’s destinie:
Macpherson’s time will not be long
On yonder gallows tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He played a spring and danced it round,
Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?
On mony a bloody plain
I’ve dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword,
And there’s no a man in all Scotland,
But I’ll brave him at a word.

I’ve lived a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart
And not avengèd be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He played a spring and danced it round,
Below the gallows tree.

BRAW LADS

Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes,
Ye wander thro’ the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o’ Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better;
And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine,
The bonnie lad o’ Gala Water.

Altho’ his daddie was nae laird,
And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher,
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We’ll tent our flocks by Gala Water.

It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,
O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure!

IN A FRIEND’S CAUSE

(“FOR WILLIE CHALMERS.”)

Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I’m got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin’;
Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets
For sake o’ Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d name
May cost a pair o’ blushes;
I am nae stranger to your fame
Nor his warm urgèd wishes.
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours,
And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit,
Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel might swear ye’re fair,
And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne’er a ane mistak’ her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy palmers;
Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie,
Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie:
But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart’s the royal blue,
And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin’ glowrin’ country laird
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And host up some palaver.
My bonnie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom
Inspires my muse to gie ’m his dues.
For de’il a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.

SCOTCH DRINK

_Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That’s sinking in despair;
An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care;
There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse,
Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An’ minds his griefs no more._
SOLOMON (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7).

Let other Poets raise a fracas
’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus,
An’ crabbèd names an’ stories wrack us,
An’ grate our lug;
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink,
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,
To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An’ aits set up their awnie horn,
An’ pease an’ beans at een or morn,
Perfume the plain;
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou King o’ grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o’ food!
Or tumblin’ in the boiling flood
Wi’ kail an’ beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’;
Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’,
When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin’;
But, oil’d by thee,
The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin’
Wi’ rattlin’ glee.

Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear:
Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair,
At’s weary toil:
Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi’ gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind, in time o’ need,
The poor man’s wine,
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o’ public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts,
By thee inspir’d,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir’d.

That merry night we get the corn in!
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin’ on a New-Year mornin’
In cog or bicker,
An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,
An’ gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith,
O rare to see thee fizz an’ freath
I’ th’ luggèd caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev’ry chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel
Wi’ dinsome clamour.

When skirlin’ weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright
How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight—
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

When neibors anger at a plea,
An’ just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel!
It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason;
But mony daily weet their weasan’
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in a winter’s season,
E’er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel’!
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’ whisky punch
Wi’ honest men!...

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic-grips an’ barkin’ hoast
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast
Is ta’en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize—
Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn’d drinkers.

Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill,
An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,
Tak’ a’ the rest,
An’ deal’d about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

ANOTHER OF THE SAME

Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines rich-clust’ring rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,
But, blythe an’ frisky,
She eyes her free-born martial boys
Tak aff their whisky.

What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms an’ beauty charms,
When wretches range in famish’d swarms
The scented groves,
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.

Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o’ powther;
Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither
To stan’ or rin,
Till skelp! a shot—they’re aff, a’ throu’ther,
To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say ‘Such is royal George’s will,
An’ there’s the foe!’
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
An’, when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him
In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,
An’ raise a philosophic reek,
An’ physically causes seek
In clime an’ season;
But tell me whisky’s name in Greek,
I’ll tell the reason.

A BOUSING CATCH

My love she’s but a lassie yet;
My love she’s but a lassie yet;
We’ll let her stand a year or twa,
She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.
I rue the day I sought her, O,
I rue the day I sought her, O;
Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s bought her, O!

Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will,
But here I never miss’d it yet.
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t,
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t;
The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife,
An’ could na preach for thinkin’ o’t.

THE MALTWORM’S RUNE

O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes,
Guid ale gars me sell my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon;
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.

I had sax owsen in a pleugh,
And they drew a’ weel eneugh,
I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane;
Guid ale keeps the heart aboon.

Guid ale hauds me bare and busy,
Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie,
Stand i’ the stool when I hae done;
Guid ale keeps the heart aboon.

POETS FOR EVER!

(SECOND EPISTLE TO THE OLD SCOTTISH BARD)

While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake,
An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e’enin’s edge I take,
To own I’m debtor,
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik,
For his kind letter.

Forjeskit sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs
Their ten-hours’ bite,
My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs
I would na write.

The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie,
She’s saft at best, and something lazy,
Quo’ she ‘Ye ken we’ve been sae busy,
This month an’ mair,
That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie,
An’ something sair.’

Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
‘Conscience,’ says I, ‘ye thowless jad!
I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud,
This very night;
So dinna ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.

‘Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts,
Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,
Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts,
An’ thank him kindly?’

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I ‘Before I sleep a wink,
I vow I’ll close it;
An’ if ye winna mak it clink,
By Jove, I’ll prose it!’

Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,
Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp,
Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi’ gleesome touch!
Ne’er mind how fortune waft an’ warp;
She’s but a bitch.

She’s gien me mony a jirt an’ fleg,
Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, tho’ I should beg
Wi’ lyart pow,
I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg,
As lang’s I dow!

Now comes the sax-an’-twentieth simmer
I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer,
Frae year to year:
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent,
Behind a kist to lie an’ sklent,
Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent per cent
An’ muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent
A bailie’s name?

Or is’t the paughty feudal thane,
Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,
While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks?

‘O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,
Thro’ Scotland wide;
Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a’ their pride!’

Were this the charter of our state,
‘On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,’
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to Heaven! that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began,
‘The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate’er he be,
’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,
And none but he!’

O mandate glorious and divine!
The followers of the ragged Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine,
In glorious light,
While sordid sons of Mammon’s line
Are dark as night.

Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,
Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul
May in some future carcase howl,
The forest’s fright;
Or in some day-detesting owl
May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an’ joys,
In some mild sphere,
Still closer knit in friendship’s ties
Each passing year!

THE BONNIE LAD THAT’S FAR AWA

O how can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo’e best
Is o’er the hills and far awa?

It’s no the frosty winter wind,
It’s no the driving drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes in my e’e,
To think on him that’s far awa.

My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they hae disown’d me a’:
But I hae ane will tak my part,
The bonnie lad that’s far awa.

A pair o’ gloves he bought to me,
And silken snoods he gae me twa;
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that’s far awa.

O weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken shaw:
And my young babie will be born,
And he’ll be hame that’s far awa.

OF A’ THE AIRTS

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e best:
There’s wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o’ my Jean.

There’s wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.]

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
Nor shape that I admire,
Although thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awake desire.

Something, in ilka part o’ thee,
To praise, to love, I find;
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than if I canna mak thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if Heaven shall give
But happiness to thee:
And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live,
For thee I’d bear to die.

I HAE A WIFE

I hae a wife o’ my ain,
I’ll partake wi’ naebody;
I’ll tak cuckold frae nane,
I’ll gie cuckold to naebody.

I hae a penny to spend,
There—thanks to naebody;
I hae naething to lend,
I’ll borrow frae naebody.

I am naebody’s lord,
I’ll be slave to naebody;
I hae a guid braid sword,
I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.

I’ll be merry and free,
I’ll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.

UP IN THE MORNING

Up in the morning’s no’ for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to wast,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A’ day they fare but sparely;
And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL

O were I on Parnassus hill,
Or had o’ Helicon my fill,
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee!
But Nith maun be my Muse’s well,
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel’,
On Corsincon I’ll glow’r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a’ the lee-lang simmer’s day
I couldna sing, I couldna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o’er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e’en—
By Heaven and Earth I love thee!

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o’ thee my breast inflame:
And aye I muse and sing thy name—
I only live to love thee.
Tho’ I were doom’d to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run,
Till then—and then—I’d love thee!

MY WIFE’S A WINSOME WEE THING

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o’ mine.

I never saw a fairer,
I never lo’ed a dearer,
And neist my heart I’ll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o’ mine.

The warld’s wrack, we share o’t,
The warstle and the care o’t;
Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE

As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An’ owre she warsled in the ditch;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin by.
Wi’ glowrin’ een, an’ lifted han’s,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it!
He gapèd wide, but naething spak;
At length poor Mailie silence brak:—

‘O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu’ case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An’ bear them to my Master dear.
‘Tell him, if e’er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,—
O bid him never tie them mair
Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair!
But ca’ them out to park or hill,
An’ let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, an’ grow
To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’!
‘Tell him he was a Master kin’,
An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine;
An’ now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.
‘O bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butchers’ knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel:
An tent them duly, e’en an’ morn,
Wi’ teats o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
‘An’ may they never learn the gates
Of ither vile wanrestfu’ pets—
To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal,
At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro’ the shears;
So wives will gie them bits o’ bread,
An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.
‘My poor tup-lamb, my son an’ heir,
O bid him breed him up wi’ care!
An’, if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
An’ warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi’ yowes at hame;
An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless graceless brutes.
‘An’ neist my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O may thou ne’er forgather up
Wi’ ony blastit moorland tup;
But ay keep mind to moop an’ mell,
Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel!
‘And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath
I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith;
An’ when you think upo’ your mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
‘Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my master a’ my tale;
An’ bid him burn this cursed tether;
An’, for thy pains, thou’se get my blether.’

This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head,
An’ closed her een amang the dead!

POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi’ saut tears tricklin’ down your nose;
Our bardie’s fate is at a close,
Past a’ remead;
The last sad cape-stane of his woes—
Poor Mailie’s dead!

It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:
He’s lost a friend and neibor dear
In Mailie dead.

Thro’ a’ the toun she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi’ speed:
A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him
Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o’ sense,
An’ could behave hersel wi’ mense;
I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence
Thro’ thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin’ Mailie’s dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o’ bread,
An’ down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o’ moorland tups,
Wi’ tawted ket, an’ hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:
A bonnier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips
Than Mailie’s, dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchancie thing—a rape!
It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape,
Wi’ chokin’ dread;
An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape
For Mailie dead.

O a’ ye bards on bonnie Doon!
An’ wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O’ Robin’s reed;
His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie dead!

THE BARDS OF AYR

TO W. SIMPSON, 1785

I gat your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,
An’ unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie,
Your flatterin’ strain.

My senses wad be in a creel,
Should I but dare a hope to speel,
Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,
The braes o’ fame;
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.

Yet when a tale comes i’ my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed,
As whiles they’re like to be my dead,
(O sad disease!)
I kittle up my rustic reed;
It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain,
She’s gotten poets o’ her ain,
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
But tune their lays,
Till echoes a’ resound again
Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while,
To set her name in measur’d style;
She lay like some unkenn’d-of isle,
Beside New Holland,
Or where wild-meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an’ Tweed, to mony a tune,
Owre Scotland rings,
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon,
Naebody sings.

Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu’ line;
But, Willie, set your fit to mine,
An’ cock your crest,
We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine
Up wi’ the best.

We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells,
Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells,
Where glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae Southron billies.

At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace’ side,
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,
Or glorious died.

O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy,
While thro’ the braes the cushat croods
Wi’ wailfu’ cry!

Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me
When winds rave thro’ the naked tree;
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree
Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,
Dark’ning the day!

O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms,
Wi’ life an’ light,
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn’d to wander
Adown some trottin’ burn’s meander,
An’ no think lang;
O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an’ drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive;
Let me fair Nature’s face descrive,
And I, wi’ pleasure,
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive
Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, ‘my rhyme-composing brither!’
We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither:
Now let us lay our heads thegither,
In love fraternal;
May Envy wallop in a tether,
Black fiend infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes;
While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies;
While Terra Firma, on her axis,
Diurnal turns,
Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,
In Robert Burns.

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me:
I said there was naething I hated like men—
The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me,
The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.

He spak o’ the darts in my bonnie black een,
And vow’d for my love he was dying;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel-stockèd mailen, himsel’ for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand were his proffers:
I never loot on that I kend it, or car’d;
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less,
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock;
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there?
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock.
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie.

I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d her hearin’,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet—
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’, a swearin’,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’.

He beggèd for Gudesake I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow:
So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

I’M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET

I am my mammie’s ae bairn,
Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir;
And lying in a man’s bed,
I’m fley’d wad mak me eerie, Sir.

I’m owre young, I’m owre young,
I’m owre young to marry yet;
I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammie yet.

My mammie coft me a new gown,
The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t;
Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir,
I’m fear’d ye’d spoil the lacing o’t.

Hallowmas is come and gane,
The nights are lang in winter, Sir;
And you an’ I in ae bed,
In troth I dare na venture, Sir.

Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind
Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, Sir;
But if ye come this gate again,
I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.

I’m owre young, I’m owre young,
I’m owre young to marry yet;
I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammie yet.

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI’ AN AULD MAN?

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man?
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an’ lan’!

He’s always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e’enin’,
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang:
He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his bluid it is frozen,
O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers,
I never can please him do a’ that I can;
He’s peevish, and jealous of a’ the young fellows:
O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man!

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity,
I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan;
I’ll cross him and rack him, until I heart-break him,
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO

My heart was ance as blythe and free
As simmer days were lang,
But a bonnie westlin weaver lad
Has gart me change my sang.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right gang ne’er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.

My mither sent me to the town,
To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary warpin o’t
Has gart me sigh and sab.

A bonnie westlin weaver lad
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi’ a net,
In every knot and thrum.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And aye I ca’d it roun’;
But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.

The moon was sinking in the west
Wi’ visage pale and wan
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad
Convoy’d me through the glen.

But what was said, or what was done,
Shame fa’ me gin I tell;
But oh! I fear the kintra soon
Will ken as weel’s mysel.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right gang ne’er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

_My son, these maxims make a rule,
And lump them aye thegither:
The rigid righteous is a fool,
The rigid wise anither:
The cleanest corn that e’er was dight,
May hae some pyles o’ caff in;
So ne’er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o’ daffin._
SOLOMON (Eccles. vii. 16).

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
Your neibour’s fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water:
The heaped happer’s ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter:

Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door,
For glaikit Folly’s portals;
I, for their thoughtless careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,—
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,
And shudder at the niffer;
But cast a moment’s fair regard—
What maks the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,
And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
Your better art o’ hidin’.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop!
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
It maks an unco leeway.

See Social life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmogrified, they’re grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
O would they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o’ cases;
A dear lov’d lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination—
But, let me whisper i’ your lug,
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human.
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias.
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.

CA’ THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES

Hark! the mavis’ e’ening sang,
Sounding Clouden’s woods amang;
Then a-faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them where the heather grows,
Ca’ them where the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.

We’ll gae down by Clouden side,
Thro’ the hazels, spreading wide,
O’er the waves that sweetly glide,
To the moon sae clearly.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Yonder’s Clouden’s silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O’er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou’rt to love and Heav’n sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes, etc.

Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die—but canna part,
My bonnie dearie.

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them where the heather grows,
Ca’ them where the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.

Hark! the mavis’ e’ening sang,
Sounding Clouden’s woods amang.]

AYE SHE WROUGHT HER MAMMIE’S WARK

There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen;
When a’ the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sang sae merrily:
The blythest bird upon the bush
Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite’s nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad.
The flower and pride of a’ the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryst,
He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o’ the stream
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean.

And now she works her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanie’s heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e’e,
As Robie tauld a tale o’ love,
Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly prest,
And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love:

‘O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi’ me?

‘At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi’ me.’

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush’d a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!

‘Oh, open the door, some pity to shew,
Oh, open the door to me, oh!
Tho’ thou hast been false, I’ll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, oh!

‘Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh!

‘The wan moon is setting ayont the white wave,
And time is setting with me, oh!
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, oh!’

She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh!
‘My true love!’ she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again, oh!

WANDERING WILLIE

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears to my e’e;
Welcome now, Simmer, and welcome, my Willie,
The Simmer to nature, my Willie to me!

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers;
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain!

OUT OVER THE FORTH

Out over the Forth I look to the north,
But what is the north and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest,
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;
For far in the west lives he I lo’e best,
The lad that is dear to my babie and me.

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie,
Thou hast left me ever;
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie,
Thou hast left me ever.
Aften hast thou vow’d that death
Only should us sever;
Now thou’st left thy lass for aye—
I maun see thee never, Jamie,
I’ll see thee never!

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken;
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
Thou hast me forsaken.
Thou canst love anither jo,
While my heart is breaking;
Soon my weary e’en I’ll close—
Never mair to waken, Jamie,
Ne’er mair to waken!

ROWTH O’ RHYMES THE POET’S RICHES

(EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH, 1786)

Dear Smith, the sleeest pawkie thief
That e’er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef
Owre human hearts;
For ne’er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,
And ev’ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon
Just gaun to see you;
And ev’ry ither pair that’s done,
Mair taen I’m wi’ you.

That auld capricious carlin’, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She’s turn’d you aff, a human creature
On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature,
She’s wrote ‘The Man.’

Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash;
Some rhyme to court the country clash,
An’ raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash;
I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,
Has blest me with a random shot
O’ country wit.

This while my notion’s taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I’m that way bent,
Something cries ‘Hoolie!
I red you, honest man, tak tent!
Ye’ll shaw your folly.

‘There’s ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters,
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors
A’ future ages;
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters
Their unknown pages.’

Then fareweel hopes o’ laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,
An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes
My rustic sang.

I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

But why o’ death begin a tale?
Just now we’re living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care o’er side!
And large, before Enjoyment’s gale,
Let’s tak the tide.

This life, sae far’s I understand,
Is a’ enchanted fairy-land,
Where pleasure is the magic wand,
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu’ light.

The magic wand then let us wield:
For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d,
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,
Wi’ wrinkled face,
Comes hoastin’, hirplin’ owre the field,
Wi’ creepin’ pace.

When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’;
An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’,
An’ social noise;
An’ fareweel dear deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O life, how pleasant is thy morning,
Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning,
We frisk away,
Like schoolboys, at th’ expected warning,
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Among the leaves:
And tho’ the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot,
For which they never toil’d nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
And, haply, eye the barren hut
With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace;
Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey;
Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan’,
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’,
To right or left, eternal swervin’,
They zig-zag on;
Till curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’,
They often groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining—
But truce wi’ peevish, poor complaining!
Is Fortune’s fickle Luna waning?
E’en let her gang!
Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let’s sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,
And kneel ‘Ye Pow’rs!’ and warm implore,
‘Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er,
In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o’ rhymes.

‘Gie dreeping roasts to country lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
And maids of honour;
And yill an’ whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.

‘A title, Dempster merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit,
In cent per cent;
But gie me real, sterling wit,
And I’m content.

‘While ye are pleased to keep me hale,
I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal,
Be’t water-brose, or muslin-kail,
Wi’ cheerfu’ face,
As lang’s the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace.’

An anxious e’e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath misfortune’s blows
As weel’s I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool,
Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives a dyke!

Nae hare-brain’d sentimental traces,
In your unletter’d, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces
Ye never stray,
But gravissimo, solemn basses,
Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise;
Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattlin’ squad:
I see you upward cast your eyes—
Ye ken the road.

Whilst I—but I shall haud me there—
Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where—
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,
Content with You to mak a pair,
Where’er I gang.

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON

As cauld a wind as ever blew,
A cauld kirk, and in’t but few;
As cauld a minister’s ever spak—
Ye’se a’ be het or I come back!

YE BANKS AND BRAES

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care?

Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o’ its love,
And fondly sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause lover stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

NOW WESTLIN WINDS

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander;
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy, the murdering cry,
The fluttering, gory pinion!